It was mixed emotions Friday as muggles across the land lined up to buy their tickets. Yes, we got in line. For some reason, reserving my seat via smartphone didn't seem right. I wanted this one for the scrap book.
Yes witches and wizards, the end is near. We've watched the film's stars grow to be mature and attractive (dare I say sexy? Double-dog-dare I say sexual?!) adults, and though we've waited with baited breath over the years for opening day of each film, we seemed to take it a little easier this time.
In the past, it was like the day after Christmas- you've got a pocket full of cash with no end in sight... so what's a new sweater, three cups of coffee at Starbucks, a new pair of jeans, etc. But when you get down to that last $20 or so, we tend to think harder about our purchases- try to savor every last penny.
So is the case with Potter. Before, it seemed like the movies were a kind of Christmas gift that came every year. New and exciting, the films left us exhillerated and counting down the days until the next one was released.
This time, the thought of the next film being released actually releases nothing but a dull sadness. It is like realising that childhood is over...again. For the next film will in fact be the last.
We knew it was coming. Those of us who are a few years above the proper H.P. demographic when the books were first released have sort of a nurturing relationship with Harry and the gang. We love them, we cheer them on, we wish we could be their older brothers and sisters, or maybe their teachers at Hogwarts! Kids (now in college) who grew up with the books, well, I have to say I can't imagine what they are feeling.
They've got it worse. They read about the death of beloved Dumbledore, then had to witness it on screen a few years later. I still haven't read the last book, but saw the tears streaming down my sister's face as she flew through the pages of the seventh book. These kids don't know a world without Harry Potter. (Author's note: my sister has been given fair warning, on several occasions, that if she tells me even one hint of a detail from HP7, she will be flogged.)
As I took my seat and anxiously waited for that awesome, rusty version of "WB" to appear from the blackness, I knew I was in for a treat, but I knew I had to make it last.
Dec 2, 2010
Energy Vampire Slayahhhh
Blog post for USHP Charleston on vampire slaying:
U. S. Home Protect of Charleston
WOW! Did you know that in the average home, 75% of the electricity used to power home electronics is consumed while the products are turned off? The new term for these appliances that are sucking the money from your utility budget is "energy vampires."
Energy vampires are things like televisions, microwaves and phone chargers that stay plugged in all day, and even though the machine may be powered off (or just not being used, in the case of a microwave, phone charger, etc.) the appliance is still getting power.
No, this is not the same kind of creepy vampire as that one from Twilight that your daughter always talks about. Unlike Edward Cullen, these vampires are real threats! No, they won't bite you (unless you decided that wiring your bathroom sounded like a good DIY project and have no prior experience as an electrician) but they can be cause for some pretty extreme and unnecessary power bills.
But don't fear! There are several solutions, and none involve wooden crosses or silver bullets. The best and perhaps easiest solution is to plug these appliances that sit unused all day into a power strip. When you leave in the morning, turn it off! This will keep precious power from flowing into the teeth (read: prongs?) of what powers your gadgets.
Try this for a month and let us know how it works out for you...This might be the one and only time you get excited to open that power bill!
U. S. Home Protect of Charleston
WOW! Did you know that in the average home, 75% of the electricity used to power home electronics is consumed while the products are turned off? The new term for these appliances that are sucking the money from your utility budget is "energy vampires."
Energy vampires are things like televisions, microwaves and phone chargers that stay plugged in all day, and even though the machine may be powered off (or just not being used, in the case of a microwave, phone charger, etc.) the appliance is still getting power.
No, this is not the same kind of creepy vampire as that one from Twilight that your daughter always talks about. Unlike Edward Cullen, these vampires are real threats! No, they won't bite you (unless you decided that wiring your bathroom sounded like a good DIY project and have no prior experience as an electrician) but they can be cause for some pretty extreme and unnecessary power bills.
But don't fear! There are several solutions, and none involve wooden crosses or silver bullets. The best and perhaps easiest solution is to plug these appliances that sit unused all day into a power strip. When you leave in the morning, turn it off! This will keep precious power from flowing into the teeth (read: prongs?) of what powers your gadgets.
Try this for a month and let us know how it works out for you...This might be the one and only time you get excited to open that power bill!
Insulate your home...or just read my blog.
This is a post that I did for a contractor that did insulation and other green solutions for homeowners in Charleston SC. Appreciate the cheese, please.
U. S. Home Protect of Charleston
“Since the beginning of time 'twas written in the stones that one day a band would come..."
And it has!!
Unfortunately, you live in a neighborhood that has expressly prohibited rock-offs in their covenant, right below boat parking and above swimming pool construction.
Do you have a sneaking suspicion that your 85 year-old neighbor is not a fan of the face-melters you’ve (almost) perfected (on beginner level) on Guitar Hero? Does your dog hide under the couch every time you begin wailing your best Meatloaf impersonation into a shampoo bottle in the shower?
Your little crooner may very well be the next Davis or Coltraine, but for now that C flat sounds like…well, something else. Sharp.
And don’t think for one second that your wife even tries to put a lid on the highest note of “My Heart Will Go On” while singing into the mop handle, “Honey I Shrunk the Kids” style. Girl Power.
Sounds like your motley crew would benefit from a little sound proofing. No, not the way you wallpapered your parents’ garage with egg crates in high school for band practice…insulation has come a long way, baby. Sealection 500 is a foam insulation that is sprayed into your walls, filling up every nook and cranny. The open cells in the foam (think sponge) absorb sound waves, keeping noise from escaping into your neighbor’s house.
Remember that 85 year-old neighbor who hates your guitar riffs, namely Freebird? Well it just so happens that you are not a huge fan of her husband’s dire need to mow the grass at 7 o'clock Saturday morning. Lucky for you, Sealection not only keeps you from having to fight the law (Livability Court citations in Charleston for noise violations are $1,098!) but it will also keep noise from lawnmowers, trains, and polka music out.
If your power bill leaves you dazed and confused every month, listen up! Properly insulated homes are energy efficient. In other words, brace yourself for totally tubular utility bill savings.
So next time your brood decides to relocate in search of more space to powerslide, consider the benefits of insulating your venue with Sealection 500.
Till then,
Rock on.
U. S. Home Protect of Charleston
“Since the beginning of time 'twas written in the stones that one day a band would come..."
And it has!!
Unfortunately, you live in a neighborhood that has expressly prohibited rock-offs in their covenant, right below boat parking and above swimming pool construction.
Do you have a sneaking suspicion that your 85 year-old neighbor is not a fan of the face-melters you’ve (almost) perfected (on beginner level) on Guitar Hero? Does your dog hide under the couch every time you begin wailing your best Meatloaf impersonation into a shampoo bottle in the shower?
Your little crooner may very well be the next Davis or Coltraine, but for now that C flat sounds like…well, something else. Sharp.
And don’t think for one second that your wife even tries to put a lid on the highest note of “My Heart Will Go On” while singing into the mop handle, “Honey I Shrunk the Kids” style. Girl Power.
Sounds like your motley crew would benefit from a little sound proofing. No, not the way you wallpapered your parents’ garage with egg crates in high school for band practice…insulation has come a long way, baby. Sealection 500 is a foam insulation that is sprayed into your walls, filling up every nook and cranny. The open cells in the foam (think sponge) absorb sound waves, keeping noise from escaping into your neighbor’s house.
Remember that 85 year-old neighbor who hates your guitar riffs, namely Freebird? Well it just so happens that you are not a huge fan of her husband’s dire need to mow the grass at 7 o'clock Saturday morning. Lucky for you, Sealection not only keeps you from having to fight the law (Livability Court citations in Charleston for noise violations are $1,098!) but it will also keep noise from lawnmowers, trains, and polka music out.
If your power bill leaves you dazed and confused every month, listen up! Properly insulated homes are energy efficient. In other words, brace yourself for totally tubular utility bill savings.
So next time your brood decides to relocate in search of more space to powerslide, consider the benefits of insulating your venue with Sealection 500.
Till then,
Rock on.
Apr 6, 2010
BASEBALL!
“A hot dog at the ballgame beats roast beef at the Ritz." ~Humphrey Bogart
It’s finally here! Whether you go for the $1 beer, the sumo-wrestling in between innings or for the love of the game, the Joe is the place to be when the temperature starts to rise.
And what’s not to love? Peanuts, beer, friends, girls showing off their brand-new tan lines in the stands… Americana.
It is a sign that many count on every year- a sign that we can finally put those space-bags we bought from the commercial to good use and store away those sweaters (WOW 20 in one bag!). It’s time for shorts and sunscreen, NOT jackets and hot chocolate. For flip-flops and toe-rings, NOT boots and wool socks.
I don’t know the first thing about baseball. I know there are 9 innings, but sometimes there isn’t, right? I grew up playing basketball-- I’m used to a scoreboard that doesn’t have much to it, so I have a hard time following the stats. I get really nervous every time the ball or bat flies up toward the stands because a history of bad luck makes me think it’s coming for my face every time. But yes, I love it.
If nothing else, I love to watch the sunset. The Ashley reflects the pink and purple and orange of the low country twilight and my heart melts. The green of the field becomes deeper. The temperature drops just enough to cool the crowd. The kids jump into a plastic pool of grits. I love this place.
I can’t wait to get sun burnt and have raccoon eyes after the first day game. I can’t wait to eat my first Dixie Dog of the year and use 15 napkins to sop up the chili and pimento cheese. I can’t wait to stand in line for the ATM. I can’t wait to see that announcer with the curly mullet, and I cannot wait to meet my friends at the Joe.
It’s finally here! Whether you go for the $1 beer, the sumo-wrestling in between innings or for the love of the game, the Joe is the place to be when the temperature starts to rise.
And what’s not to love? Peanuts, beer, friends, girls showing off their brand-new tan lines in the stands… Americana.
It is a sign that many count on every year- a sign that we can finally put those space-bags we bought from the commercial to good use and store away those sweaters (WOW 20 in one bag!). It’s time for shorts and sunscreen, NOT jackets and hot chocolate. For flip-flops and toe-rings, NOT boots and wool socks.
I don’t know the first thing about baseball. I know there are 9 innings, but sometimes there isn’t, right? I grew up playing basketball-- I’m used to a scoreboard that doesn’t have much to it, so I have a hard time following the stats. I get really nervous every time the ball or bat flies up toward the stands because a history of bad luck makes me think it’s coming for my face every time. But yes, I love it.
If nothing else, I love to watch the sunset. The Ashley reflects the pink and purple and orange of the low country twilight and my heart melts. The green of the field becomes deeper. The temperature drops just enough to cool the crowd. The kids jump into a plastic pool of grits. I love this place.
I can’t wait to get sun burnt and have raccoon eyes after the first day game. I can’t wait to eat my first Dixie Dog of the year and use 15 napkins to sop up the chili and pimento cheese. I can’t wait to stand in line for the ATM. I can’t wait to see that announcer with the curly mullet, and I cannot wait to meet my friends at the Joe.
Dec 1, 2009
Where the Wild Things Aren't
Just wait till you see what Spike Jonze has done to “Where the Wild Things Are.”
On second thought, don’t.
Half of the pages of the beloved children’s book were illustrations of the “wild rumpus” that ensued once the main character, Max, met the wild things and became their king. Somehow, Jonze found a way to turn the sententious children’s story into a 101 minute feature film.
There is no doubt the scenery and the puppetry were amazing. The Wild Things looked exactly the way we all remember them from Maurice Sendak’s cross-haired illustrations. The scenery was gorgeous and beautifully filmed, but it looked more like my back yard than the colorful jungle fantasy world that Sendak created. And the desert? Don’t get me started.
Half-way through the film, I desperately wanted to quote young Max by shouting, “NOW STOP!” I wish I could have borrowed his sadness shield.
Then I got it: This is one of those read between the lines moments. Well, there’s no “between the lines” here. There is literally one line per page, if that. The simplicity of the book is what made it a classic. Did Sendak want us to read between the lines?
The story is about a boy who is sent to his room (without supper!) for being a jerk to his mother. While in his room, his fury excites his imagination, and from the posts of his bed grow ancient and exotic trees. He sails away to where the wild things are, convinces them not to eat him and becomes their king. He then grows tired and hungry, and returns to his bedroom, where there was a hot bowl of soup waiting for him. The moral of the story is clear enough: we get mad and we get scared and sometimes we want to escape, but no matter what we do, our moms still love us. Fantastic!
But the film incorporates all forms and fashions of fear, confusion and fury: parents dating, and aversion to frozen vegetables, sibling rivalry, arms being ripped off, THE SUN EXPLODING!
Did I read a different book?
The movie makes sure you are on Max’s side from the beginning, when he is hurt in a snowball fight. Should we be on Team Max? Hell no. He’s jealous, controlling, disrespectful and rude. There is nothing about this movie character that we should like. Even in the book, after Max lies to the wild things, he still leaves them without a king the moment he gets hungry! What a little punk! I put Max in the category of the O’Doyles in Billy Madison or maybe Scut Farkas in A Christmas Story, because even when these bullies are getting theirs, you don’t feel bad for them because they are such ass holes.
The only character I feel bad for is Max’s mother, because she has to deal with that mess of a child. But wait-- is it her fault? Is Jonze making a parenting message here?!
Oh and don’t forget about the wild things, who have deal with the disaster that Max made of their little island and their little pack.
It’s clear that he’s trying to make some sort of message, we just have no idea what it is.
I would never make a child sit through this film, because I imagine they would be terrified. And bored. To those who say it’s not a children’s movie, I say get real.
I give the costumes and computer graphics five big stars. As for the content, well, I’m not sure I found any that made sense. The next time some quirky director is looking to make an abomination (I mean, a message) of a film, we can only hope that they stay away from the classics.
On second thought, don’t.
Half of the pages of the beloved children’s book were illustrations of the “wild rumpus” that ensued once the main character, Max, met the wild things and became their king. Somehow, Jonze found a way to turn the sententious children’s story into a 101 minute feature film.
There is no doubt the scenery and the puppetry were amazing. The Wild Things looked exactly the way we all remember them from Maurice Sendak’s cross-haired illustrations. The scenery was gorgeous and beautifully filmed, but it looked more like my back yard than the colorful jungle fantasy world that Sendak created. And the desert? Don’t get me started.
Half-way through the film, I desperately wanted to quote young Max by shouting, “NOW STOP!” I wish I could have borrowed his sadness shield.
Then I got it: This is one of those read between the lines moments. Well, there’s no “between the lines” here. There is literally one line per page, if that. The simplicity of the book is what made it a classic. Did Sendak want us to read between the lines?
The story is about a boy who is sent to his room (without supper!) for being a jerk to his mother. While in his room, his fury excites his imagination, and from the posts of his bed grow ancient and exotic trees. He sails away to where the wild things are, convinces them not to eat him and becomes their king. He then grows tired and hungry, and returns to his bedroom, where there was a hot bowl of soup waiting for him. The moral of the story is clear enough: we get mad and we get scared and sometimes we want to escape, but no matter what we do, our moms still love us. Fantastic!
But the film incorporates all forms and fashions of fear, confusion and fury: parents dating, and aversion to frozen vegetables, sibling rivalry, arms being ripped off, THE SUN EXPLODING!
Did I read a different book?
The movie makes sure you are on Max’s side from the beginning, when he is hurt in a snowball fight. Should we be on Team Max? Hell no. He’s jealous, controlling, disrespectful and rude. There is nothing about this movie character that we should like. Even in the book, after Max lies to the wild things, he still leaves them without a king the moment he gets hungry! What a little punk! I put Max in the category of the O’Doyles in Billy Madison or maybe Scut Farkas in A Christmas Story, because even when these bullies are getting theirs, you don’t feel bad for them because they are such ass holes.
The only character I feel bad for is Max’s mother, because she has to deal with that mess of a child. But wait-- is it her fault? Is Jonze making a parenting message here?!
Oh and don’t forget about the wild things, who have deal with the disaster that Max made of their little island and their little pack.
It’s clear that he’s trying to make some sort of message, we just have no idea what it is.
I would never make a child sit through this film, because I imagine they would be terrified. And bored. To those who say it’s not a children’s movie, I say get real.
I give the costumes and computer graphics five big stars. As for the content, well, I’m not sure I found any that made sense. The next time some quirky director is looking to make an abomination (I mean, a message) of a film, we can only hope that they stay away from the classics.
Nov 5, 2009
17 again...
Ah, to be 17 again.
Wait. Let me rephrase that. Thank God I’m not 17 anymore.
For some reason, when you say the word seventeen, people smile. What about being 17 was pleasant? Most 17 year-olds spend their days cleaning out the bagel slicer at their crappy job, putting air in the tires of their crappy car, paying for their lunch in dimes (it took 12 of them for a Jumbo Jack), staring at their bodies in the mirror thinking it looks disgusting, when usually the most disgusting thing in the reflection is their facial expression.
17 year-olds spend their nights unraveling the gossip of the day—comparing different versions of the same story, hoping to God that no one finds out that their shoes came from Payless or that their parents can’t afford to send them on the class trip.
They stare at boys. All. Day. Long.
17 is an age of constant uneasiness. Always wondering what people are thinking about you. Assuming it must be bad. Spending $40 on a T-shirt from Abercrombie because that’s what the cool girl wears.
What the hell was wrong with us? Always trying to blend in and stay out of everyone’s way.
It is when I think about all of the nasty things that happen in high school that I am reminded of those other things. You know, the things you got in big trouble for. Despite how awkward or unpopular you are, everyone seems to find a group of a few friends to get into trouble with. Your parents don’t even notice anymore when they come in the house without knocking or open the fridge and help themselves. It is these people that you will never, ever forget because they were the ones that you were forced to pass the time with.
When you are seventeen, you aren’t allowed out on school nights, but when you figured out that the window right above the stairs to the deck doesn’t have an alarm, you made it count. These were the nights that you smoked your first cigarette, got that ridiculous speeding ticket… maybe made your way into the backseat of a car with that cute boy.
They aren’t nights that anyone is necessarily proud of, but being 17 sucks so bad that you have to find ways to have fun. This is the one time in life that doing bad things still somehow seems innocent.
It seems like the stars were brighter when I was 17. I have several memories where my friends and I were outside sitting in a circle, surrounding whatever item it was that we were not supposed to have (cigarettes, a case of beer, WEED!) and reveling in the glory of having it. The mental picture seems more like a movie set than someone’s rickety old tree house or the football field.
I remembering keeping Febreeze and mouthwash in my glove box because I really believed that it would mask the odor of whatever I had gotten into that night. I remember kissing a co-worker in the walk-in freezer at Panera Bread. I remember my girlfriends and me taking the football coach’s jeep during weightlifting class to go get Chic-Fil-A. I remember toilet papering our rival campus with my volleyball team.
I remember falling in love with Charleston on a speech and debate trip, where we snuck into an art show and sampled their fine selection of wine and cheese. Mostly just the wine.
I remember having 22 missed calls from home on prom night knowing I would be in trouble, but thinking it was worth it. I remember tipping cows (yes, we did that in Greenville) and all of us being hung-over on the way to Mr. Martin’s house the next morning to apologize. I remember laughing at the irony throughout our youth group’s Christmas play when my best friend Amanda was cast as the Virgin Mary.
Ok, so 17 had its ups and downs. It’s an odd age. You’re taken a little more seriously than when you were 16, but you still can’t buy cigarettes or porn. You have a crappy job, but your coworkers are usually your friends. You really don’t have any responsibilities other than to show up at school. Yes, there are always bitches at school. Yes, sometimes your parents suck, and at 17 you can’t do a damn thing about it. But at 17, there was no such thing as rent or utilities or credit cards or student loans.
What a simpler time?! Now, I don’t care what the girls around me are wearing. I know that gossip is worthless. I don’t care quite as much about looking cute for the boys. I can go out and come home whenever I want, if I even want to.
I am, however, 22. I have a real job and real responsibilities. I have a relationship that I am proud of. I am now a grown-up. I can’t kiss random boys in the freezer anymore. I can’t stay out playing with my friends till sunrise when I know I have appointments in the morning. I can’t get crazy speeding tickets because I pay for my insurance now.
Of course, I don’t want to do some of these things anymore. Now that I’m 5 long years wiser, I know a few things about conduct and restraint. But I am glad that God gave us sort of a grace period—a time to dip our toes into the pool of adult things without real consequence. We all thought we were just passing the time till we could get out of town and do something great. But we were learning. We were experiencing and experimenting. We were doing things that are really only acceptable if done by mindless, innocent 17 year-olds and thank God we did them.
Would I ever want to be 17 again? HELL NO. Being awkward, boy-crazy, and bad-mouthed were not things that occurred in my imagination. I am, however, glad that I took advantage of this little window of time where all we wanted to do was wave good-bye to childhood and let the good, grown-up times roll.
Wait. Let me rephrase that. Thank God I’m not 17 anymore.
For some reason, when you say the word seventeen, people smile. What about being 17 was pleasant? Most 17 year-olds spend their days cleaning out the bagel slicer at their crappy job, putting air in the tires of their crappy car, paying for their lunch in dimes (it took 12 of them for a Jumbo Jack), staring at their bodies in the mirror thinking it looks disgusting, when usually the most disgusting thing in the reflection is their facial expression.
17 year-olds spend their nights unraveling the gossip of the day—comparing different versions of the same story, hoping to God that no one finds out that their shoes came from Payless or that their parents can’t afford to send them on the class trip.
They stare at boys. All. Day. Long.
17 is an age of constant uneasiness. Always wondering what people are thinking about you. Assuming it must be bad. Spending $40 on a T-shirt from Abercrombie because that’s what the cool girl wears.
What the hell was wrong with us? Always trying to blend in and stay out of everyone’s way.
It is when I think about all of the nasty things that happen in high school that I am reminded of those other things. You know, the things you got in big trouble for. Despite how awkward or unpopular you are, everyone seems to find a group of a few friends to get into trouble with. Your parents don’t even notice anymore when they come in the house without knocking or open the fridge and help themselves. It is these people that you will never, ever forget because they were the ones that you were forced to pass the time with.
When you are seventeen, you aren’t allowed out on school nights, but when you figured out that the window right above the stairs to the deck doesn’t have an alarm, you made it count. These were the nights that you smoked your first cigarette, got that ridiculous speeding ticket… maybe made your way into the backseat of a car with that cute boy.
They aren’t nights that anyone is necessarily proud of, but being 17 sucks so bad that you have to find ways to have fun. This is the one time in life that doing bad things still somehow seems innocent.
It seems like the stars were brighter when I was 17. I have several memories where my friends and I were outside sitting in a circle, surrounding whatever item it was that we were not supposed to have (cigarettes, a case of beer, WEED!) and reveling in the glory of having it. The mental picture seems more like a movie set than someone’s rickety old tree house or the football field.
I remembering keeping Febreeze and mouthwash in my glove box because I really believed that it would mask the odor of whatever I had gotten into that night. I remember kissing a co-worker in the walk-in freezer at Panera Bread. I remember my girlfriends and me taking the football coach’s jeep during weightlifting class to go get Chic-Fil-A. I remember toilet papering our rival campus with my volleyball team.
I remember falling in love with Charleston on a speech and debate trip, where we snuck into an art show and sampled their fine selection of wine and cheese. Mostly just the wine.
I remember having 22 missed calls from home on prom night knowing I would be in trouble, but thinking it was worth it. I remember tipping cows (yes, we did that in Greenville) and all of us being hung-over on the way to Mr. Martin’s house the next morning to apologize. I remember laughing at the irony throughout our youth group’s Christmas play when my best friend Amanda was cast as the Virgin Mary.
Ok, so 17 had its ups and downs. It’s an odd age. You’re taken a little more seriously than when you were 16, but you still can’t buy cigarettes or porn. You have a crappy job, but your coworkers are usually your friends. You really don’t have any responsibilities other than to show up at school. Yes, there are always bitches at school. Yes, sometimes your parents suck, and at 17 you can’t do a damn thing about it. But at 17, there was no such thing as rent or utilities or credit cards or student loans.
What a simpler time?! Now, I don’t care what the girls around me are wearing. I know that gossip is worthless. I don’t care quite as much about looking cute for the boys. I can go out and come home whenever I want, if I even want to.
I am, however, 22. I have a real job and real responsibilities. I have a relationship that I am proud of. I am now a grown-up. I can’t kiss random boys in the freezer anymore. I can’t stay out playing with my friends till sunrise when I know I have appointments in the morning. I can’t get crazy speeding tickets because I pay for my insurance now.
Of course, I don’t want to do some of these things anymore. Now that I’m 5 long years wiser, I know a few things about conduct and restraint. But I am glad that God gave us sort of a grace period—a time to dip our toes into the pool of adult things without real consequence. We all thought we were just passing the time till we could get out of town and do something great. But we were learning. We were experiencing and experimenting. We were doing things that are really only acceptable if done by mindless, innocent 17 year-olds and thank God we did them.
Would I ever want to be 17 again? HELL NO. Being awkward, boy-crazy, and bad-mouthed were not things that occurred in my imagination. I am, however, glad that I took advantage of this little window of time where all we wanted to do was wave good-bye to childhood and let the good, grown-up times roll.
Jun 2, 2009
These are a few of my favorite things...
One of my favorite sensations happens not during sex, but the next day. It is when I'm daydreaming on a swing at work, or when I'm reaching for laundry detergent at the grocery store.
It is that moment, in the middle of a mundane, likely sex-free day when I get a quick flashback from the night before. Like a moment from the previews of a movie: the music grows intense and images from the film appear on the screen. Nothing is cohesive, just images of the frightening battle, the passionate kiss, the lady screaming "NOOOOOOOOOO!" at whomever she screams to.
Only when this happens, you imagine the strap of your dress sliding off of your sunburnt shoulder and then immediately think-"That was fucking hot," and then "Oh, Gain is cheaper than Tide today!"
You don't have to play out the whole sex scene in your mind- one flashback is enough to give you butterflies in your stomach ALL DAY.
I love it.
It is that moment, in the middle of a mundane, likely sex-free day when I get a quick flashback from the night before. Like a moment from the previews of a movie: the music grows intense and images from the film appear on the screen. Nothing is cohesive, just images of the frightening battle, the passionate kiss, the lady screaming "NOOOOOOOOOO!" at whomever she screams to.
Only when this happens, you imagine the strap of your dress sliding off of your sunburnt shoulder and then immediately think-"That was fucking hot," and then "Oh, Gain is cheaper than Tide today!"
You don't have to play out the whole sex scene in your mind- one flashback is enough to give you butterflies in your stomach ALL DAY.
I love it.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
